Dynasty Rising
by Forever Jake
Summary: 3rd place entrant in ShatteredEnigma.com's short story contest. An adaptation of the Oedipus mythos to the world of WarCraft. Through generations of the Horde, a blind prophet seeks to right the corruption that has infected an orcish dynasty.


"Dynasty Rising"  
  
For Clark -  
A belated Happy Birthday,  
And too bad about the computer  
  
Act I – Oedipus and Creon  
  
It was dark, so very dark, and the weak moon seemed to cling to the clouds for fear of vanishing. The bog mists which frequently surrounded the Blackrock fortress were especially thick, their wisping extensions trailing about like the arms of ghosts, reaching out for the lungs of living orcs to infest and strangle.  
It was eerily quiet as Blackhand's procession made its way through the jungle. The air along the swamp road seemed stale, like the inside of a tomb. No one spoke. It had been many months since Blackhand had been here; more and more he was away to the north, where the new Blackrock Spire was being built. The old swamp fortress was in dire disrepair; the efforts of the War Chief's most promising builders to salvage it had failed as the Morass rose ever up to devour the building.  
The smothering mire of the marshlands was not the proper place for a Clan to reside, Blackhand had decided. Dangerous beasts roamed wild here; the War Chief recalled the day he had become chieftain of the clan, his reward for the skillful slaying of a Black Dragon which had preyed upon the budding clan.  
Jungle diseases, as well, festered within the fortress walls, and the shamans and warlocks alike were powerless to stop them. Whole families fell ill in their huts with neither cure to prevent their deaths nor enemy to exact vengeance upon. North, in the clean air of the mountains, Blackhand could bring his people new health, new life. Blackrock Spire would be the salvation of the Blackrock Clan, and the clouds of death which had long reigned over the old swamp city would be forgotten forever.  
The procession reached the outer gate of the stronghold, and a dozen shapes emerged from the murk of the jungle night to greet them. As the mists parted, Blackhand recognized the face of his young lieutenant, Orgrim. The junior orc's face was gaunt and hardened, the result of many months in command of the death-laden fortress. As the two warriors met beneath the steel arch of the city gate, the War Chief raised his gauntleted hand to his forehead in salute.  
Orgrim nodded grimly but did not return the salute. After a moment, Blackhand lowered his glove.  
"Orgrim, my blood brother," the chieftain said, smiling, "how is it that so few of my warriors come to greet me?"  
"These are all who remain. The plague lords over this city far more cruelly than any Black Dragon ever did. It will take more than strength or cunning to defeat it." The War Chief thought he detected more than the normal gruffness in his lieutenant's voice. He smiled consolingly.  
"It is no matter, young one," Blackhand said, dismounting. A grunt took the wolf's reins and disappeared. "Soon the Spire's construction will be completed, and the Blackrock Clan will bid farewell to these vile swamps forever."  
"I only pray that some of us will survive to see that day."  
"Many will see that day, Orgrim. Take heart."  
"I fear there are not many left, master," he snapped. "Our numbers fall with every passing day. You will likely see naught but death during your stay."  
"Why is it that you've requested my return, Orgrim? I had hoped to oversee the construction's final days – it will likely be finished before I return."  
"That is good," Orgrim said, turning away.  
"Take heart," Blackhand repeated, placing his glove on his lieutenant's shoulder. "Everything will be fine once the Spire is complete. In fact, I had hoped you might begin the first of the evacuations when I leave here."  
"I am afraid there is something else, master," the young orc said suddenly. The War Chief rescinded his hand as he watched a new figure emerge from the shadowed mists.  
The blind Ner'zhul hobbled along slowly, hunched over like some withered peon and leaning precariously on a crooked staff. As he approached, Blackhand dropped to one knee. Orgrim slowly did likewise.  
"Great shaman!" Blackhand exclaimed. "I had not heard that you had crossed through the Portal." Both of the warriors stood. "What brings you to visit the Blackrock Clan?"  
"Ill tidings, I am afraid," the ancient orc rasped, chuckling. "Tell him your tale, Orgrim." The younger orc hesitated for a moment, and then cleared his throat and began.  
"Many months have I waited here, while you and your armies sat elsewhere, away from our home. Our people are not sick, master – they are dying. They are dying, and their king is no where to be found. Three weeks ago, I realized that you were not returning for us. No, do not deny it. Your subjects are here, on the very eve of their deaths, and the Horde is – where? North, in the mountains, building a new fortress for you.  
"I sent a courier to retrieve you, and prayed to all the gods that you would come, if only this one time. After two weeks without so much as three words in reply, I decided to go to you myself. I was one night out when I met a stranger on the road – Ner'zhul.  
"He has seen everything, even more than I had guessed. He showed me the truth – that indeed, you were not coming back. He showed me how you came to be among us. He showed me how you were cast off from your own clan, how you were forced to wander the wilderness as an exile. He showed me how your pet Warlock, Gul'dan, helped you defeat the very Black Drake he had ensured would be conveniently harassing our borders, and how he manipulated you into power over us."  
Orgrim had taken out a short sword from his belt and was holding it out towards his chieftain. Ner'zhul remained stoic.  
"He showed me Gul'dan's pact with you and the other chieftains. I saw you swear to your demon masters that you would burn this world for them. I saw you doom the Horde to eternal war and death. I saw you drink the demons' blood and surrender your soul to them.  
"I saw then the worst atrocity of all. I saw how this plague came to afflict our people – how you yourself devised it and gave it to Gul'dan and his demons to create. It was your own idea! 'Let them die,' you said, 'let the weak die, and surrender their powers to the strong. So shall the Horde grow truly terrible.' I saw how every servant or peon who has come to this world has failed to outlive his father back on Draenor, how every woman in our clan dies as soon has she had produced new warriors. I saw how your brainchild has brought the 'weak' to their knees while you and your armies grow ever stronger in the safety of your vaunted Spire."  
Blackhand took a step back. He felt unsteady; the rush of memories he had long buried within himself were now bubbling up like the vengeful eruptions of a volcano.  
"Am I weak?" Orgrim asked. "Am I weak, Blackhand?" The chieftain looked around. Orgrim laughed grimly. "Your Spire and its armies cannot protect you here; not here, the place of weakness, where death reigns. Trust not your guards, either, for they side with me in this. You are not safe here, War Chief. Here, you, too, are weak."  
"Will you kill me?" Blackhand asked.  
Orgrim laughed again. "I am no assassin, Blackhand. I am not a murderer, like you." He lowered his blade and held it out, hilt-first, to his chieftain. "I will face you in fair contest, as it should be. I will defeat you, as you must be defeated – by the strength of my own righteousness. By the devouring evil of your own treason."  
Blackhand cautiously reached out and took the blade. He took another step back, swiping the air a few times to test its weight. Orgrim smiled.  
"Good. Ner'zhul, where is the hammer?" From his cloak, the withered shaman produced the largest warhammer the chieftain had ever seen. It was solid black adamantium, with the golden image of a thunderbolt inscribed upon its head. "Do you know what this is, Blackhand?" The War Chief shook his head. "Of course you don't – your Warlock made sure our old chieftain, S'ai'ul Doomhammer, was without it when you met him in the wilderness. Yes, I saw that, too. I saw how you ambushed him in the swamp three days before you came to us. I saw how you lay in wait, like a spider, and how you slashed and killed him without mercy." Orgrim reached out and took the hammer from Ner'zhul, holding it with both hands. Blackhand saw that it bore near its bottom a tattered red sash. It fluttered in the breeze, matching nicely the Blackrock red markings on Orgrim's armor.  
"This is called the Doomhammer, a weapon out of legend, from the days of old on our homeworld, before your Warlock and his demons brought us to the wretched place. It was the arm of many generations of Blackrock's chieftains, the last being old S'ai'ul himself. By Gul'dan's meddling, he did not have it with him when he met you in the jungle – he was completely defenseless to your assaults."  
"I now take up this Doomhammer, and once I have crushed you with its might, I shall take it as my surname like the first Blackrock king so long ago. Through me, our clan and all the Horde will survive where you had plotted their deaths." He swung the hammer at Backhand, who deflected it slightly with his sword and fell back another step.  
"You think by killing me you shall lift this curse?" The War Chief asked. "It was Gul'dan who cast it, and though he lies sleeping these past months, he lives on. You will never find him."  
"Fool!" Orgrim cried, swinging the Doomhammer again. This time it caught Blackhand in the chest, and the chieftain fell on his back. "My spies have already found the Shadow Council's temple. You will die today, and tomorrow, your precious Warlock and his lackeys will join you!"  
He smashed the hammer downwards at Blackhand's prone body, but the older orc rolled out of the way. Orgrim recovered quickly, and caught the chieftain's chin with his upswing just as he tried to stand. The War Chief collapsed instead on his knees.  
Ner'zhul said nothing.  
"It is done," Orgrim said, bring the Doomhammer back to rest upon his shoulder. "Tomorrow, the Horde begins its march – not to Blackrock Spire, but back to Draenor."  
"You think that the humans and dwarves will let you flee? Already the next phase of the attack has commenced – we are deeply entrenched in Khaz Modan, and across the sea."  
"Then we will leave our trenches."  
"Whelp," the War Chief said. "You and your precious clan will never survive without the Legion."  
"We shall see."  
Orgrim swung the Doomhammer hard. It connected with Blackhand's skull, and dislodged the older orc's head cleanly from his body. The torso of the dead War Chief collapsed in the mud of the jungle.  
After a long moment, Orgrim turned to look at Ner'zhul, but the blind shaman was gone. Shrugging, the new War Chief of the Horde leaned his weapon upon his shoulder and walked back inside the walls of the fortress.  
  
North, at the southern tip of the Red Ridge Mountains, the shadowy summit of Blackrock Spire stared down, watching.  
  
Act II – Eteocles and Polyneices  
  
Rend Blackhand paced beneath the archway in the squat, shallow wall, his mind adrift. The war horns blew distantly, singing in tune with the low whistles of the wind, but the chieftain of the Black Tooth Grin Clan did not hear them. Years of battle hymns and drumbeats had taught him to drown out the grim melodies of war. The only sound was the steady rhythm of his bare feet on the cobbled road and the pulse of his blood through his head.  
"They've broken through the first gate," someone said. Rend made no response. His pacing did not slow or quicken, and he did not deviate from his previous course. After a moment, the stranger vanished again, leaving Rend once more alone with his thoughts.  
Many and long months had the last vestiges of the Horde lingered in the swamplands and shadows beneath Blackrock Spire since the portal fell, like some crumpled beast that refused to die. The enemy had hunted them to the brink of extinction, all the way from the lowest pits of the Black Morass to this place, at the foot of the Spire itself. Yet annihilation at the humans' hands was not punishment enough for the orcs' crimes, it seemed.  
The Black Tooth Grin Clan had been hunted like dogs by much a direr foe – their own kind. Rend remembered the first days after the portal fell, and the chaos that had gripped the Horde. Lifelong soldiers had deserted their ranks; the mightiest and most unified of clans had split into factions; old rivalries had rekindled and new ones sparked as each orc warrior vied against the ever-encroaching human armies and the efforts of his fellows simply to survive. Worse; others surrendered outright or even hired themselves to the service of the enemy, assisting in the hunting of their own kin for a moment's reprieve from the executioner's warhammer.  
Rend had taken his Clan and fled; though it had been his people's task to guard the portal, once it had fallen their station there served no purpose but to greet oblivion. The shadows of his father's fortress now watched and guarded the junior Blackhand as he waited for the end.  
"The second gate is down, lord."  
Memories of the forgotten War Chief stirred, unbidden, in his son's mind. Images flared in his brain: the first expeditions into the hamlets of Rockard and Stonard; the conquest of Stormwind Keep; the burning of Northshire Abbey.  
And the eventual, inevitable day when the village criers had heralded Blackhand's death at the hands of the orc who would become his successor – Orgrim Doomhammer.  
Rend had been bitter at the news of his father's murder, but he had remained true to his father's memory, and served the Horde well. When the time came to defend the portal, Rend and his brother, Maim, had flocked to Doomhammer's side and fought honorably until the end.  
Maim. It was interesting to watch the machinations of one's mind play out, Rend thought. One always returns to the matter at hand. Maim.  
Maim had stood beside his brother as the portal collapsed, had watched it die like some great titan beneath the sky. He had stared into his brother's eyes, shared Rend's pain and sense of failure as the unity of the Horde around them visibly dissolved. Then Maim had vanished in the carnage, dead, Rend had thought, the victim of the enclosing armies of the humans' Alliance.  
He had been mistaken.  
"The third gate, chieftain."  
Maim had indeed been the victim of the Alliance, but not its fallen foe. He had become its prisoner, locked away in an internment camp to waste away. Later he heard word that his brother had survived and fought on, had taken command of a large section of the Horde and holed up beneath their father's Spire. He smiled and cried, then, proud that some remnant of his family still fought.  
Yet when the humans had tried and failed again and again to shake Rend and his comrades from their hold, Maim had answered their call for defection. In return for his brother's fall, the son of the first War Chief would be granted liberty and pardon by the arbitration of the Alliance, and a hefty gold sum. His own skin his priority, he had leapt at the chance, even at the cost of his Clan's freedom and possibly his brother's life.  
"The fourth and fifth gates, master."  
He set out to raise an army. It was not hard; many orcs were down on their luck and quick to accept treason in return for survival. Many humans, elves, and dwarves as well leapt at the chance to crush the last true Clan, even if it meant adopting an orcish commander. Kilrogg Deadeye, of the Bleeding Hollow Clan, had agreed, bringing with him many warriors; Alleria, the elven ranger, had also joined them, as had the dwarven griffon rider, Kurdran, the paladin, Turalyon, and the mercenary captain Danath. With these heroes marched the wizard Khadgar, the very mage who had silenced the portal's groans forever.  
"The last gate, lord."  
The siege was in its last minutes, Rend knew. His brother would have his freedom, and the Alliance its victory. The Horde would be no more. This son of Blackhand would not run again. Death would be welcome, a final conclusion to the endless battle he had never hoped to win.  
He served Doomhammer alone when he fought the humans; he saw that now. How had he hoped to avenge his father by remaining true to his betrayer?  
An arrow struck the ground at his feet. For the first time that afternoon, Rend looked up.  
There were seven of them, just as he had imagined them. He recognized by description the dwarf, the elf, the paladin, and footman, the mage, and the pair of orcs. The elf had an arrow notched in her bow, and the wizard gripped his staff. The men held their weapons high. Deadeye fingered his axe indifferently.  
And leading them all, the slouching form of Maim stood.  
He spoke. "It has been a long time, brother," he said.  
"Indeed, it has," Rend replied.  
"I had hoped it would not come to this," Maim pleaded, stepping forward. His sword was not in his hand, but sheathed.  
"Don't lie to yourself," Rend spat. "You know the day you agreed to their offer it would come to exactly this; there is no other way this can end."  
"Perhaps you are right," Maim confessed. "Shall we get this over with?"  
Rend said nothing, but drew his blade. Maim followed. Steel touched steel. The other enemies retreated, recognizing the duel for what it was; each had his own moral code, and each knew they would not interfere until its completion.  
Rend slashed broadly and violently, but Maim was faster and more dexterous. He jabbed and parried, dodged and pivoted, rolled and swiped. In a few minutes, the steel found flesh. Crying in pain, Rend slumped. Seizing the opportunity, Maim stepped closer, raising his sword high over his head.  
Rend suddenly leapt upward, his sword wailing like the wind as he swung it around to strike Maim's neck. The aggressor orc moved his own blade to counter-strike, but it was too late; Maim's head fell like a discarded pebble to the ground.  
A grim cry filled Rend's ears. He realized it was his own voice.  
He looked down at his chest, where the hilt of Maim's sword protruded. Both brothers' blood pooled and mixed on the ground, testament to the spent bloodline of the sons and their father. Rend looked up at the six enemy heroes gathered around, watching him. With a second garbled cry, he collapsed for good in the dust.  
  
Above them, against the drab blue of the afternoon skies, the shadowy summit of Blackrock Spire stared down, watching.  
  
Act III – Teiresias and Antigone  
  
"All forgiven, mate, all forgiven," Orgrim Doomhammer was saying. "We've all had to do some grim things to preserve our clans. Gods know I've had a rough enough time keeping the Blackrock Clan out of trouble. Don't think on it."  
They stood in the narrow clearing of a grove at the foot of the Spire, the trees' autumn plumage shielding them from the view of spies, enemy or allied. The wind roared distantly, as though even it refused to enter this clandestine meeting place. Kilrogg Deadeye had been standing at the edge of the place, his back to Doomhammer, but now he turned to face his War Chief.  
"You speak for yourself, and I am glad for your trust, Orgrim. But what of the other clans, the Dragonmaw and the Black Tooth Grin? They will not take kindly to my staying here – not after I aided in the destruction of so many of their kinsmen."  
"I can guarantee the Dragonmaw Clan's conduct, chieftain," a third orc drawled. Deadeye turned to stare at him with his one functional occulus. Nekros was a wiry figure, bent like a dead twig, his warlock's robes flowing over his hunched body like a funeral blanket over a corpse. "With Zuluhed gone, the shamans all bow to my judgment now. If I tell them not to harm you, you shan't be harmed."  
Doomhammer eyed the warlock mournfully. Though he extended the withered spellcaster the necessary courtesy, neither he nor many others took Nekros seriously after so many years. The old spellcaster was senile at best; though he seemed to mean well, his words simply held no value.  
"Lord," Deadeye said, addressing Doomhammer, "I thank you both for your hospitality, but I must insist that both of Blackhand's sons receive proper funeral rites. Regardless of recent events, Maim was as honorable a warrior and as true a servant to the Horde as his brother ever was. As you said, we have all done black things for the safety and freedom of our clans. I am allowed to stay here – why is he not allowed to be cremated?"  
"No," Nekros interrupted, "I cannot agree. Maim Blackhand led an army against the Horde, his native alignment – and worse, he brought the wretched humans inside the sacred Spire walls. Allowing a warrior who has strayed and repented to live is one thing, chieftain Deadeye; but granting the traitor who led our direst enemy to us, and who died cursing his clan and his War Chief, to burn restfully upon the same pyre that heroes are awarded? That is but folly."  
"You must admit, Kilrogg," Doomhammer said apologetically, "that Nekros speaks true. You sinned by following the enemy, and you returned to us and repented. Maim sinned far worse by leading the enemy to us, and he did not seek repentance, but died in sin. The necrolytes will never agree to burning him on a saint's fire."  
"The necrolytes will do whatever you tell them to!" Deadeye cried. "You're the War Chief!"  
"And I must respect the responsibilities of that title by remaining true to our religion. Maim died a sinner of the worst sort, Kilrogg, not a hero to be decorated and commemorated. I cannot in good conscience erase what he has done!"  
Deadeye turned away again to stare into the wall of trees. Doomhammer sighed in exasperation.  
"Very well then, do not answer me! For one who has been shown great mercy and forgiveness, you are maddeningly ungrateful! I will see you in the chieftain's hall later for supper."  
"War Chief," Nekros mumbled as the pair left the grove, "would you care to come and survey the new hatchery? We have a pair of drakes growing splendidly, and a new clutch of whelps expected any day..."  
Deadeye sighed and wiped a layer of sweat off of his forehead, raising his face as he did so to look up at the sky. Far above, the pointed hood of Blackrock Spire stared down, ever watchful, like the visage of some great lost patriarch determined to observe and protect his children even in death. Some said Blackhand's ghost still looked over the Horde, his children. Was he watching now? Had he seen his own two sons murder one another? Did he know that one would be praised as a saint, and the other reviled as a demon?  
Deadeye knew little of the first War Chief's life, save what he had heard from other chieftains; Blackhand had died before Deadeye's own rise to power, though they had met several times during the First War. He knew that the great warlord had condemned his own daughter to death for eloping with an ogre brute; how would he take the news of Rend and Maim killing one another if he had seen it?  
It had been a pointless battle; nothing had resulted from it but the needless death of two heroes. The humans were repulsed, the fortifications repaired; the clans of Blackrock and Dragonmaw had come to rally around the reclaimed Spire, and Deadeye's own Bleeding Hollow Clan had joined them. Nothing had changed. The Spire stood, but the Alliance still made war upon its inhabitants. The orcs fought on, and the humans fought on. Nothing had changed. Nothing.  
"A waste, I know," said a voice. Deadeye looked around, spotting the figure emerging from a bend in the wall of trees. He at first mistook the being for Nekros, but he quickly realized his error. Though similarly hunched and bent, this new orc wore the ancient shamans' blue robes, not the blood red of the warlocks. A violet sash, dirtied from hard travel, covered the figure's eyes; he was blind. As the realization of the stranger's identity came to Deadeye, his face widened in surprise.  
"Ner'zhul!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"  
"Quiet, young fool," the old orc laughed. "My presence should not surprise you. Have I ever died before?"  
"No, old one."  
"And why should I start now?"  
"I heard you were with the warlocks when Gul'dan led them across the sea on his ill-fated voyage."  
"Not I. Nekros and I returned instead to Grim Batol, where the Dragonmaw Clan rules."  
"I never did understand what made you come to this world in the first place. Your clan remained on Draenor – why didn't you?"  
"A worthy question, young chieftain, but not the one I shall answer for you today."  
"I see. Should I ask another? What question shall I ask?"  
"You should ask what lies in store for the future of the Horde."  
"What lies in store, shaman?"  
"Death, young one – and rebirth. What we have become will give way to what we once were."  
"I'm not very good with riddles."  
"Here. It will be easier for you to see than for me to tell you. Relax."  
Instantly, images began to wash over Deadeye; Draenor. Rivers. Mountains. Valleys. Clans and cities. Oceans and deserts. Shamans communing with the elements of storm, earth, and fire. Unity and peace.  
Then the images changed. Blood stained the sky. Rivers boiled. Mountains and valleys crumbled in on one another. Cities burned, oceans dried up and deserts imploded. Shamans turned from their dying elements in fear, embracing instead a new power – demons.  
One by one they emerged through rifts in the sky and ground like nether spirits slipping through cracks in reality, ghosts and specters infiltrating a holy place. A red haze enveloped the whole of Draenor, as the demons exterminated those they saw as weak and bestowed those the saw as strong with unnatural powers.  
Deadeye watched, unable to tear himself away from the image. Shamans – no, warlocks now – gathered before a great pit of fire and death. The flames licked up, touching them. Some were enveloped and collapsed, others spread their arms in exaltation and tasted the powers of the nether course through their veins. All felt waves of pain wash over them; the Legion gives nothing without price.  
One orc stood atop a short bluff, above the others. As Deadeye watched, a pillar of flame rose out of the pit and struck the warlock's eyes. The warlock – Ner'zhul, Deadeye realized – shrieked and bent in agony, clutching his face.  
Then Deadeye saw what Ner'zhul had seen for so many years: everything. He saw the endless wars with humanity as the shaman had seen them before their occurrence. He saw everyone he knew claimed by battle or plague, consumed by the fires of the demon's corrupt blessing. He saw the eventual end of the Horde, distant, looming, inevitable.  
"You are lucky," Ner'zhul whispered. "You have lost only one eye to this... nightmare."  
"What must I do?" Deadeye heard himself say.  
"First cremate your fallen friend. It is better that Blackhand's children lie peacefully – at least they shall escape the tortures yet to come."  
"What of Doomhammer?"  
"Forget about Doomhammer; his reign draws to a close. A new order is coming; the path he began with his first betrayal now nears its end."  
"You think Nekros will betray him?"  
Ner'zhul nodded. "Nekros' loyalty is only as strong as his sanity, and perhaps even less so. He will kill Orgrim, or give him to the Alliance. Then he will take command of what orcs will follow him and return to Grim Batol."  
"What of us, then?"  
"Burn Maim's body. Then rally your clan."  
"Where are we going."  
"The only place worth returning to, young Kilrogg."  
"Draenor?"  
But the blind prophet had disappeared into the trees. Deadeye looked up at the sky, to the silhouetted peak of the Spire. He knew what he would do; whatever roads lay ahead, whatever hardships or black chapters he would endure, he knew that Blackhand's ghost would rest. Rend and Maim would share their pyre, as they should, and the Horde would find whatever 'rebirth' Ner'zhul foresaw. Already, the vision was hazy in Deadeye's mind. He turned away, his back to the great Spire, and began to walk south, towards the innermost gate of the fortress.  
  
Above him, against the white of the clouds and the grim blue beyond, the shadowy summit of Blackrock Spire stared down, watching.  
  
Act IV – Laius and Jocasta  
  
It was like a scene out of a performance. The perfect green trees against the perfect blue sky. The perfect yellow sun shining through the perfect white clouds. The perfect brown dirt with the perfect red blood on it.  
Durotan, chieftain of the Frostwolf Clan and second cousin of the War Chief, Blackhand, was dead.  
The two green-skinned corpses, the chieftain and his mate, lay against one another, a work of perfect art in their death. They clutched each other still in their last embrace, their faces still bearing the expressions of resignation, of impending doom.  
We have lost... everything, the chieftain's ghost said, frowning down at the grisly scene. He appeared translucent, detached from reality, suspended as if from the air. He leaned against a pine tree, staring at his body.  
Gul'dan will succeed, then, Draka's ghost said. She clutched her mate's arm tightly, as if the truth of her death could not set in until she let go. If it caused him pain, or if he even noticed, he made no sign.  
Yes, Durotan answered. Our efforts have failed. The demons' corruption will spread like wild flames now. Our people can no longer escape.  
Wait.  
A figure emerged from the brush. He appeared to be orcish, and he was bent over with age. His robes were dirties and wrinkled to the extent that their original color could not be told. A sash, the color of twilight, stretched over his eyes, an indication of his blindness.  
It's Ner'zhul! Durotan exclaimed. What's he doing this side of the Dark Portal, let alone here?  
I don't know, mate. Draka frowned. He must be one of Gul'dan's lackeys.  
Ner'zhul walked to the corpses and bent, placing a hand on the forehead of each in turn. Then he turned his face up, as though he was staring directly at the pair of ghosts.  
It's as if he can see us, Draka observed.  
"I can," the old orc said, his apparent gaze remaining focused on Durotan.  
Traitor! Durotan spat. Warlock! Why have you come here? To see that Gul'dan's thugs have done their deed?  
"I would speak with you, wise spirits."  
Never! the dead chieftain said, his arms crossing over his broad chest. You side with the Betrayer! We shall not degrade ourselves further by consorting with you.  
"Peace, mighty chieftain. It is not by Gul'dan's counsel that I come to you." Durotan opened his mouth, by Draka interjected.  
What would you tell us, Blind One? she asked.  
"The treachery that Gul'dan has wrought will spell dark days for your people, it is true. But it is not darkness without end."  
You who cannot see, what know you of darkness and light? the warrior growled.  
"Blind to that which is clear, I see that which is hidden. Gul'dan keeps many secrets, even from I, his teacher... but I see them all.  
"A darkness is coming, as I have said, the product of Gul'dan's meddling. Though it shall not end with his death, and though it shall consume even I... perhaps worst of all... when it comes for me, there shall be new light waiting to drive it off."  
You speak of hope, Blind One, Draka said.  
"Yes, a new hope... for a new people. The Orcish Horde prevails in all times, dark and light, and even in the midst of the coming crisis, I have foreseen that we shall not fall. Though blackness threatens us, our sons shall bring back the light... your son." The warlock motioned to the bundle that lay still beside Draka's corpse.  
My son is dead! Durotan cried. The traitors have slain him as they have slain us.  
"Not so, wise soul, though things would have been easier for him had he died." As if cued by the blind seer's words, the bundle shifted slightly. "I sense much potential for him, for good... and for evil. Men come soon who can realize that potential, if you let them."  
If we let them?  
"I am here, wise souls, to offer you a choice. I have seen this child's future... for good or ill, he will change the world, and his very existence will be spent defying all that Gul'dan has made the Horde to stand for. It is possible that his life will lead the Horde to its utter doom, and save us from the demons' corruption by destroying us before we can live out their aims. For this reason, I am prepared to destroy your son before this can occur."  
The two ghosts shuddered, eyeing the long scimitar which hung like a clock pendulum from Ner'zhul's belt.  
"Your other option is this: I will allow the child to live, and I shall keep my distant watch over his life. Humans shall raise him, away from the Horde and his people; in time he shall find them again, and lead them to salvation from Gul'dan's trickery, either in life or in death."  
This choice is no choice! I would rather my son die than live as a human!  
Peace, my love, Draka pleaded, interrupting her mate. At least he will be alive, and can offer hope for our people.  
Ner'zhul, Durotan whispered, what exactly is it you will do?  
"I shall become his enemy". The specter of the chieftain started visibly. Ner'zhul smiled.  
"I shall ensure the defeat and demise of Gul'dan, and when the time comes, I shall replace him. I shall take his place at the right hand of demons, and bring about the embodiment of all their evil within myself. I shall take evil out of the souls of others by containing it within myself... when the time comes, your son shall destroy me, if he can, and your people's curse will be ended."  
There was a pause. The ghosts seemed unconvinced.  
"I offer no assurances that he will succeed... but with his death, know that we all will fail. The Legion will consume the Horde, even in death, and the bane of this and all worlds will grow even more powerful. With the life of this child comes the hope, however, tiny, that the Legion and all its efforts can be halted in one moment... the moment I, as their greatest servant, fall to your... unpoisoned... son."  
Again the ghosts said nothing. He child wailed.  
"What say you?" Ner'zhul asked. "What –"  
The warlock ceased speaking suddenly, moving to hide behind a tree. He moved not too quickly, for as soon as he had taken up his hiding place, a trio of humans, on horseback, rode into the clearing, gasping in surprise as they eyed the grisly sight of the murdered orcs.  
"Quickly, wise ones," Ner'zhul whispered. His hand went to his belt, grasping the hilt of the scimitar. A single tear rolled down Draka's face.  
Let him go, Durotan said.  
Let him go.  
  
The baby wailed again, and Lord Blackmoore slid from his saddle to lift the child from its bundle and examine it. Even to the mundane human's eyes, hope and opportunity was painted on the infant... it was clear he was destined for great things.  
Two ghosts and a ghost-to-be watched the men ride away, the tiny orcling tucked gingerly between his bundle and a saddle blanket.  
Far, far, off, a certain other ghost watched as well, and was at once angry and relieved. Rebellion was coming, and redemption.  
  
Epilogue  
  
The figure of Arthas paced atop the summit of the Icecrown glacier, images real and imagined, terrestrial and otherworldly, swirling around him. Everywhere screamed the souls of the dead. A Lordaeron soldier flew by his head, and after it came a Bleeding Hollow grunt. A glint of silver caught the pacing figure's eye, as a wailing elven spirit soared past him into the ethereal, cloudless white sky. Amid the ghosts, patches of imagination and second sight floated, like holes in reality that allowed the Prince to see beyond the valley of the glacier to other places.  
In front of him, a peak sat, so still as to appear real. Its height scraped the skies as did the glacier itself, though this was a mountain not of ice, but of the darkest rock... Black Rock Spire. Absently, the boyish figure touched the side of his head, where once he remembered a fold of cloth had been tied, obscuring from the view of weak-stomached mortals his dead eyes, now once more revived.  
Behind the boy, invisible to all but him, paced a bent, withered orc, its green skin grayed by age and exhaustion. As Arthas watched with his third eye, the orc matched his steps exactly, following him along the edge of the cliff.  
"It is all finished," Ner'zhul was saying. "The corrupted Horde has been all but assimilated into the Scourge, and those who remain will come to us in time."  
"Now there are only the shamans and their ilk who side with the young Warchief," Arthas finished the orc's thought.  
"We will face him soon," Ner'zhul said.  
"And then all will be decided," said Arthas.  
The union between demon-haunted orc and death-gripped human had accomplished Ner'zhul's purpose of concentrating the latent potency of the now all-but-eliminated Legion, freed up after its renunciation by Thrall's shamanistic Horde. Yet its effects were not all predicted. By choosing the human as his champion, Ner'zhul had brought into his plot humanity, and with it the whole of the world. How this would effect the eventual dual between him – them – and Thrall, he could not guess.  
Yet Azeroth's fate was already bound with that of the Horde, long before Arthas had become heir apparent to evil itself. The fate of all worlds rested on that of the Scourge, the Legion's decorated child. The demons' powers were gone, replaced by their creation's. Within the Scourge – within Ner'zhul and Arthas – sat the power that could, and had, shaped and demolished whole realities.  
"Another war is coming," the orc or the human said, and now we are one." Neither was sure which had spoken it, and neither cared.  
Behind them, on the other side of the peak, a vision of a third mountain floated – Mount Hyjal. At its base, somewhere, was Thrall. 


End file.
